


A Model Patron

by The_Kinky_Pet



Series: BDSM NOIR [1]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Noir
Genre: Ableism, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, BDSM, Great Depression, Internalized Homophobia, Iron Man Noir - Freeform, Kink Shaming, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Prostitution, Sadism, Slow Burn, historical style drinking, how did I make a hooker fic slow burn?, smoll steve, well of course I did
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:14:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26804200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Kinky_Pet/pseuds/The_Kinky_Pet
Summary: Desperate for work after losing his job, Steve seeks work as a nude model.He's approached for a very different kind of gig.Given his desperate situation, Steve's willing to do just about ANYTHING.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Series: BDSM NOIR [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1996459
Comments: 154
Kudos: 369





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sabrecmc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabrecmc/gifts).



> Blame sabrecmc for this! 
> 
> Inspired by the Stony Discord Sabre posted, though I've taken it in a rather different direction.
> 
> Prompt 9: Smol hooker Steve, so I was thinking that it could be Depression-era sort of noir-ish vibes. With the economy in shambles, lots of people, including many Irish immigrants, turned to selling their bodies to have enough food to eat, but who would want someone like Steve? Or so Steve figures. But, he hears about a guy who has been trolling the docks looking for a very particular type of person for certain “special clients”. Steve’s no stranger to pain, so he figures he can handle it and if it puts some food on the table, it would be worth getting knocked around a bit. At least he would be getting paid as opposed to the usual running his mouth situation. Or, how smol, 1930’s Steve enters the world of bdsm and finds himself ensconced with a particular reclusive millionaire with very specific tastes.

When Steve had first accepted a gig at the Academy, he had expected to be humiliated: his imperfect body, frail and small, exposed to a circle of elite art students whose ranks he’d never be able to join. 

But he hadn’t been humiliated by the modeling at all. The students had been courteous, though distant, and as Steve sat on the raised platform, above them, he’d been their muse. Steve was the center of their devoted concentration, at once a person and an object, as the Master walked around the room commenting on someone’s shading across the curve of Steve’s ribs, or how to capture the jut of his hipbone, or the right pigments to convey the fading bruises on his cheek and arm (remnants of Steve’s last scrape). 

Steve hadn’t hated it; he liked it. Liked to be looked at, liked to be transformed into artwork. It had made his blood sing and his body hum. And his miserable, treacherous body (his goddamn traitor cock) responded for all to see. 

That had humiliated him and he’d vowed not to go back, even when the kind, old professor delicately assured Steve he wasn’t the first model to respond to observation in a physical manner. 

But Mr. Cavalli had recently let Steve go when his business took another bad turn; the pinch in Steve’s stomach and the danger of being turned out in the cold was enough to conquer far greater humiliations. He needed steady work, but one solid gig would stave off disaster. 

Steve shifted nervously in his seat and stared at the student work displayed in the hallway. Fine, but generic. Steve didn’t care for it. (And couldn’t help thinking he’d be capable of better, given such fine paints and canvass--not to mention lessons.)

“Can I help you?” Professor Ellis asked politely as he stepped out of his office and saw Steve waiting. His greying beard was meticulously trimmed, his old brown shoes carefully polished, and his old-fashioned jacket well brushed.

Steve scrambled to his feet, glad he’d taken such care with his own appearance. 

“Professor Ellis,” Steve said, holding out his hand. They shook. “Steve Rogers here. I modelled for your life drawing course a few weeks ago.”

“Yes, of course,” Professor Ellis said with a smile. “It’s nice to see you again, Mr. Rogers.”

“And you, sir,” Steve replied, heart racing nervously. The professor looked at him expectantly. 

“I--” Steve faltered. “I’m here to inquire if there might be any openings for models again.”

The sad expression on the professor’s face was answer enough.

“I’m afraid we got more applications than usual and we’ve already hired our models for the upcoming session,” he said gently. “And we’re operating on a reduced budget, so we have fewer slots than in previous semesters.”

Steve’s stomach dropped.

“I understand, sir,” Steve said in a hollow voice, then added after a moment’s hesitation, “Perhaps there’s a waitlist in case a model cancels? And, I-- I understand that funds are tight for the Academy; I could accept a reduced rate if there’s any opportunity that opens up.”

Steve knew he reeked of desperation, but instead of withdrawing awkwardly the Professor only looked softer. 

Then a sudden change--he cocked his head to the side and frowned, scanning Steve up and down. 

“Was it my advanced drawing course in October you sat for?”

“Yes, sir.”

The professor nodded and hesitated before speaking. “Actually, I may be able to refer you for something after all. Won’t you step into my office, Mr. Rogers?”

Steve followed him, only barely managing not to trip all over himself in his eagerness. 

The Professor began shuffling papers across his messy desk, clearly looking for something as he spoke:

“Not long after you modeled, a young woman—afraid I’ve forgotten the name!—came in to look at some student work and show it to the collector she works for who sometimes acts as a patron to promising young artists. He liked young Mr. Winslow’s drawing from that class and purchased it directly, though sadly no additional patronage seems to be forthcoming thus far. But a few days later one of this young lady’s colleagues came by to reiterate the collector’s satisfaction with the work. And with its subject.”

At last the Professor found the card he’d been looking for, but instead of handing it to Steve he held it, frowning.

“I was given to understand that the collector she represents may be interested in dabbling in some . . . unusual art work of his own.” 

There was something odd in the professor’s voice and Steve started to worry that the old man wouldn’t give him the referral card after all. He held his breath as Professor Ellis finally looked up and met his eyes. 

“The Academy has very high standards for how we treat our models,” the Professor said almost primly, “and it is our policy not to refer our models to unknown parties. But since it seems you may be”--a delicate pause as he selected the right phrase-- “in a difficult position . . .”

Steve’s cheeks heated even at the careful euphemism, but he took the card without hesitation when the Professor held it out.

“Thank you, sir,” Steve said, trying not to sound stiff.

“Of course, Mr. Rogers,” he said, still a little melancholy. “I hope the position proves satisfactory. I wish you the best of luck.”

They parted and Steve finally looked at the card. 

All it said was “Miss Natalie Rushman” and a phone number in Manhattan.


	2. Chapter 2

Steve was fifteen minutes early for his interview, so he paced the side streets nearby killing time since he didn’t want to look too eager (or desperate). He was glad Miss Rushman had offered to meet at a pub near the Academy instead of making him travel all the way to her offices in upper Manhattan, saying she would be in the area anyway. When he’d asked how he’d recognize her if The Old Pony was crowded, she’d replied that she’d find him--then reminded him that she’d ‘seen him before’ in a tone that made him blush.

At exactly 3:59, Steve stepped into the pub, blinking as he adjusted to the dim light. A voluptuous redhead in a beautifully cut green dress approached him immediately with a slight smile. She extended her hand and greeted him in a deep voice: “Good afternoon, Mr. Rogers.”

It was strange; she looked so familiar, like someone he had seen around his neighborhood from time to time. But he was sure he’d have noticed such a high class lady in his area, so it was probably just a passing resemblance. (Or his exhausted mind playing tricks on him.)

“Very nice to meet you, Miss Rushman,” Steve replied.

“Please join me.”

Steve slid across from her in the small corner booth near the window.

“Thank you for taking time to meet with me,” Steve said.

“Likewise. Thank you for meeting me here,” she said, green eyes sparkling. “Please allow me to offer you a drink--compliments of my client. What would you like?”

“Coffee if they have it.”

She nodded.

“What’ll it be?” the barkeep asked Steve.

“One coffee and one vodka,” she answered.

The bartender gave Steve a queer look, but didn’t say anything. Miss Rushman studied Steve’s face with an intense expression while the man brought their order. Steve flushed, then turned brighter red as the man set the coffee in front of her and handed Steve the vodka. She traded their drinks immediately, paid, and raised her glass saying, “Cheers.”

“Good health,” Steve replied. He wrapped his chilled fingers gratefully around the warm cup.

She took a sip and leaned back in her seat, still examining him.

It was the strangest interview he’d ever been to and Steve was starting to feel an echo the professor’s uneasiness. His blush was spreading down his neck and he started to drop his head awkwardly, almost bashful, then reminded himself that he had nothing to be ashamed of. Steve raised his head again and threw his shoulders back.

“Yes,” she said at last. “I think you may be a very good fit.”

“Thank you,” Steve said, trying to reign in his temper. “Perhaps you could tell me more about the position now?”

Steve couldn’t quite keep the impatience out of his tone, but her smile widened despite that (or perhaps, oddly, because of it).

“Quite so,” Miss Rushman said, leaning forward to fold her hands on the table. “I represent an unusual and eccentric artist who has been searching for a . . . special muse. He’s had single sessions and even a few repeats with models before, but never formed the artistic bond he craves, which is one it would take time and trust to nurture. Something more collaborative.”

Steve sipped his coffee and nodded, intrigued.

“My client values his privacy,” she continued. “He is exceptionally wealthy and well-regarded and can compensate you very handsomely for your services.”

“Would I know any of his work?” Steve asked, thrilled (and more than a little bewildered) by the idea that a luminary of the art world--both rich and famous?--might want him as a muse.

“No, I’m afraid not,” Miss Rushman replied smoothly. “His wealth and renowned are based on industry, not on his purely private artistic achievements.”

Steve tried not to let his disappointment show.

“I must warn you that the artist can be . . . difficult. Fickle. Hard to work with.”

Steve nearly snorted. Sounded like every artist ever. And this one was a rich industrialist to boot? He’d probably be a terror. But Steve could handle that. He’d handled worse.

Miss Rushman continued. “He can be harsh, but he is not by nature cruel. He’s brilliant, arrogant, and impatient.”

She took another sip of her vodka. “Are you still interested?”

Steve nodded. “Very much so.”

“Good,” she said with satisfaction. “Would you be free for a meeting sometime soon? Tomorrow perhaps?”

Steve tried not let his relief show.

“My schedule is very open tomorrow,” Steve said, trying to sound confident.

She smiled.

“Excellent. If you are still interested at the close of our meeting, I will provide some funds for travel expenses. This is separate from the salary. For your initial session, the artist would pay you 25$.”

Steve couldn’t keep the astonishment off his face--that was enough to pay four months back rent AND his heating bill; his shock undoubtedly doubled as she continued.

“But perhaps you’ll find that you’re busy tomorrow after all,” she said, “when you understand the exact nature of the . . . art.”

Another sip of her vodka. Steve’s stomach began to tighten up into knots; there was something decidedly unnerving about all of this. He felt like he was always missing something, like he couldn’t read between the lines.

“If you accept the position, Mr. Rogers,” she said, leaning forward, her expression intense, “you would be the canvas for his art.”

“Pardon?” Steve said, cocking his head to the side. “You mean that he’d . . . paint on my body?”

Hardly seemed like that would require such princely pay or all this mystery.

“He might,” she answered with a hint of a smile at her brightly colored lips.  
“But he mostly works in a different medium--the relationship between pleasure and pain.”

Her voice was low, intimate, almost a caress. Steve’s heart began to race as she continued: “He likes control. Intricate patterns of rope twined around the body. Leather cuffs. Chains. And he likes to inflict pain and make it show. Bruises. Scratches. Sometimes welts.”

Steve took a sharp breath. A few moments ago, he’d felt chilled but now the pub seemed far too hot.

“So, this so-called ‘artist,’” Steve said tightly, “wants a ‘model,’ he can tie up and beat?”

“A vulgar way of phrasing it, but not entirely inaccurate.” She waved a hand dismissively and finished her drink. “But he’d want to make it good for you. And he would _hurt_ you, but he would never _harm_ you.”

“What’s the difference?” Steve bit out.

“No lasting damage. His tastes aren’t particularly extreme and he has exceptional control. As I said, he’s not by nature cruel.”

Steve couldn't keep back an incredulous snort. (Not cruel! Just wanted to pay for the pleasure of beating somebody up who couldn’t fight back.)

Her expression tightened and she added in a grave tone, “And if you change your mind at any point and tell him to stop, he will.”

“And I’m supposed to believe that?” Steve asked with a glare.

“Believe what you like,” she answered smoothly. “It is the truth.”

With that, she slid abruptly from the booth and took a small envelope from her purse. She placed it on the table.

“Funds for travel expenses to Manhattan and a good meal on the way,” she said briskly. “One pm tomorrow at the enclosed address if you’d like to meet him and continue the interview process. If not, then I wish you well, Mr. Rogers.”

She took one step away from the booth, then turned back to add in a soft voice, “He isn’t always a nice man, but he is a good one.”

Then, as if by magic, she seemed to vanish in the crowd.

Steve’s coffee cup shook in his hand; he set it down abruptly with a clatter.

It was quite some time before Steve collected himself enough to go home, envelope secure in his inner breast pocket, right above his too-rapidly beating heart.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for period typical slurs, stereotypes, and (internalized) homophobia. It's the 1930's, y'all, so they're honestly doing pretty well.

**Model Patron, ch 3**

Miss Rushman had given Steve more than he needed to get himself to Manhattan; he probably could have hired a taxi cab to take him all the way to the Upper East Side with it. But the subway was plenty good enough for Steve and he used the left over to buy groceries and give his landlord some earnest money on the rent owed.

There was never really any question but that Steve would go and meet with this mysterious and nameless ‘artist.’ 

After all, he’d gotten beaten up for free for most of his life (unless Bucky was there to intervene). So, it was certainly  _ odd _ to consider doing it for pay for some guy with a screw loose, but Steve figured he could put up with a lot. Considering his circumstances.

For now, no new applicants had showed up with cash in hand for Steve’s room and Mr. Thomas wasn’t the sort to put Steve on the street just to leave it empty. But eventually someone would show up and either Steve would have the money he owed or he’d be out.

Steve wouldn’t survive long on the streets in winter. They might have room for him at St. Patrick’s, but it wasn’t likely--they’d already been helping so many for so long and were stretched so thin. 

So it seemed absurd not to bless his lucky stars for this ‘modeling’ gig. 

Or at least resign himself to a strange fate. 

And so it was, dressed in his best clothes and warmest coat, Steve emerged from the subway at the Fifth Ave Station and walked to 26 E 64th St. He was surprised to find not a private home or office building, but a fine Italian restaurant. 

A maitre d’ wore an impeccable suit and regarded Steve with distant curiosity.

“I’m supposed to meet someone here,” Steve said awkwardly, looking around the room for Miss Rushman. “My name’s Steve Rogers and--”

“Of course, sir,” the maitre d’ cut in smoothly. “You’re expected. May I take your coat? Please allow me to show you to your dining room.”

Steve handed over his jacket and followed him to the back of the restaurant, where he knocked on a closed door; a moment later, the maitre d’ opened it announcing, “Mr. Steven Rogers,” and gesturing Steve inside.

Steve hadn’t formed a clear picture in his mind of what he thought this “artist” would look like, but what he found in the opulent private dining room definitely wasn’t it. 

The man was beautiful: his well-built frame gorgeous in an elegant, gray three-piece suit; his huge brown eyes and long dark lashes set in glowing olive skin; his sharp cheekbones and strong jaw offsetting a perfectly shaped goatee that framed surprisingly full lips. His thick dark hair was swept off to one side like a cinema star and his surprised smile revealed even rows of perfect white teeth.

Steve was interviewing to be his model (or his punching bag or his whatever), but every artistic impulse in Steve’s body cried out that  _ this _ man should be the model or rule the silver screen. (Perhaps he did? He looked familiar, though Steve couldn’t place him.)

The stranger set his drink down on the table and stepped forward with a pleased smile, extending his hand to Steve.

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Rogers.” 

Steve looked up into his bright brown eyes as they shook hands; the man stood very close. His grip was firm and warm, his palm and fingers surprisingly rough and calloused (especially for a swell).

“I didn’t think you’d come,” the stranger said.

The man held Steve’s hand just a few moments longer than usual before releasing it and stepping back.

Steve frowned. “Am I late?” he asked.

“Not at all,” the man replied. “You’re right on time, Mr. Rogers.”

Steve licked his lips. 

“Good. I like to be punctual, Mr. --?”

“Mr. Anthony,” he replied, looking amused. “Or Tony if you like.”

Steve raised an eyebrow. 

“Your parents really named you Tony Anthony?”

“Of course not,” the man said with an indulgent smile. “Any more than yours really named you Steven Rogers.”

Steve’s ears went pink and he grit his teeth.

Mr Anthony’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “It appears I stand corrected. Forgive me, Mr. Rogers. Won’t you have a seat? May I offer you a drink?”

“No thank you,” Steve said, then added, “Strange sort of interviews you have, Mr. Anthony.”

“I’m a strange sort of man,” he replied with a sharp but dashing smile. “Please, won’t you be seated?”

Mr. Anthony pulled the chair out for him, but didn’t stay to push it in as if Steve were a dame. 

They sat down at the table. It was set with a cloth tablecloth and too many utensils. They looked like real silver.

Steve waited for the man to ask him a question, though he’d be damned if he knew what kind of interview questions were relevant to find a paid punching bag.

Steve frowned and when he glanced up the man was frowning too. At Steve’s look, Mr. Anthony smiled ruefully. 

“I’m afraid I’ve always been rather impulsive. And since I didn’t expect you to show up,” he admitted, looking up through his lashes. “I confess, I didn’t plan what to do if you did.”

“Why’d you think I wouldn’t show up?”

“Nat--Miss Rushman,” he said, “told me she was rather . . . _direct_ concerning the job I’m offering. Which was quite right--wouldn’t like for you to be blindsided. But my tastes are--” he paused, then waved a hand vaguely “-- _unusual_. I doubted that you’d be interested.”

Steve swallowed the humiliating acknowledgement that he couldn’t afford not to be interested. 

“Perhaps you should tell me about the job yourself, Mr. Anthony,” Steve said.

“Yes, of course,” his prospective boss replied. He looked away with a frown and started to tap-tap-tap on his chest lightly with his left forefinger, as if nervous. 

(What the hell does  _ he _ have to be nervous about?)

Steve’s stomach twisted as he waited; he grit his teeth. 

“I really am very happy you’re here,” Mr. Anthony said at last, turning back to Steve with a charming (and maybe apologetic) smile. “But perhaps we could enjoy a little luncheon before we talk business? The menu is just there at your elbow and the food here is exceptional.”

Part of Steve wanted to say no to get the worst over with right away, but it  _ was _ lunch time and he knew better than to turn down a free meal. (Even when his stomach was so tight with nerves he could hardly imagine trying to eat . . .)

“If you like,” Steve agreed evenly.

Steve picked up the leather folder and found an overwhelming array of choices, long lines of Italian phrases. And he’d clearly been given the dame’s menu; it didn’t have any prices, but with Mr. Anthony paying, he didn’t guess it mattered. 

He could feel Mr. Anthony watching him; he’d made no move to open his own menu. Steve set his down again and the man seemed disappointed.

“It’s a lot to take in,” Steve said stiffly. “Since you know the restaurant, perhaps you could make a recommendation?”

Mr. Anthony looked pleased. 

“May I order for you then?”

Steve nodded. He’d clearly done something right, but he had no idea what.

As if summoned by telepathy, a waiter knocked and entered the private room. 

“ _ Signori _ ? May I bring you anything?” he asked in a thick accent. Mr. Anthony replied in fluent sounding Italian, consulting the menu occasionally or asking a question. 

It suddenly occurred to Steve that his prospective employer might be a mobster rather than an industrialist as promised. (But surely a mobster with a taste for violence wouldn’t have to pay to scratch that itch?)

Steve sat with his hands folded awkwardly in his lap, watching the man across from him discuss with the waiter, occasionally turning to smile at Steve as if that would bring him into the conversation somehow.

(Mr. Anthony looked strong and muscular; Steve was pretty sure he could beat a fella up--especially someone like Steve--without needing permission or offering cash.) 

The waiter poured a glass of wine for Steve without asking, refilled Mr. Anthony’s glass, and smoothly disappeared.

(Perhaps the whole point was getting to bind and beat someone who wouldn’t fight back?)

Mr. Anthony raised his glass in a toast, pulling Steve from his thoughts; after a moment’s hesitation, Steve did the same. 

“To the pleasure of making your acquaintance,” Mr. Anthony said. Steve simply nodded and took a tiny sip. It was good, but he’d need his wits about him for this.

Mr. Anthony stared at him unabashedly, examining his face then running his eyes across Steve’s shoulders, arms, and chest--almost as if he were memorizing Steve to draw later, but that wasn’t it at all, was it?

(You’re not really here to model.)

The silence stretched as the beautiful man across from him continued to stare and Steve forced himself not to fidget in his seat.

(Oh god don't get flustered and react!)

“So, Mr. Rogers,” his host said at last. He swirled the wine in his glass for a moment, then looked up to ask: “Do you enjoy modeling?”

“It’s all right,” Steve replied guardedly. 

“Is there a particular medium you like modeling for?”

“Not really,” Steve said. 

“Have you done a lot of modeling at the Academy?” 

“Only a little.”

“Brooklyn Academy seems like a good school,” Mr. Anthony observed. “Have you modeled anywhere else?”

“No.”

The man let out a little huff, then asked, “Are you always this talkative?”

“No,” Steve bit out, glaring. 

Mr. Anthony laughed and shook his head. Then he pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered something to himself. (Perhaps swear words in Italian.)

He looked up with a wry and charming smile.

“You’re not giving me a lot of material to build on here, are you?” he asked. He leaned in almost conspiratorially. “But I admire that; I like a challenge. You should make me work for it.” 

Mr. Anthony gave a sly wink and said, “Still, I bet I can coax more than three words out of you yet.”

Steve’s stomach flipped. 

(Was the man . . .  _ flirting  _ with him!?!?)

Mr. Anthony grinned, seemingly oblivious to Steve’s turmoil. 

(Is it a trap? Is he trying to catch me out? Check if I’m a fairy?)

“All right!” Mr. Anthony exclaimed, clapping his hands and rubbing them together enthusiastically. “Shall I try again? Let’s see . . .”

Steve took a deep calming breath. 

“I was asking you about modeling,” Mr. Anthony said, “since that’s indirectly how we met and I  _ am  _ interested. So . . . ” He paused, thinking and took another sip of wine. “So, what first inspired you to try modeling?”

(Desperation.)

“I like art,” Steve answered with a shrug.

Mr. Anthony laughed and Steve looked at him with confusion, but it wasn’t a nasty laugh. It was a warm pleasant sound.

“Oh, you are good--exactly three words!” Mr. Anthony cried in delight. “You’re as bad as Silent Cal, so I guess I should have seen this coming.” He grinned. “I suppose this means I’ve lost my bet?”

Steve realized abruptly that--although Mr. Anthony didn’t seem offended-- he was being rude with his terse answers. And it probably wasn’t smart to be rude to a man with a penchant for violence. (Though Steve had seen no evidence of violence yet; he seemed more interested in flirting than punching, though that was probably just the Italian in him or something. He sure didn’t look like a queer.) 

The man clearly wanted conversation and Steve wanted ( _ needed _ ) a job.

“Sorry,” Steve said. “I don’t mean to be rude.”

“No, no! Don’t apologize!” Mr. Anthony exclaimed, clearly amused. “It’s working for me. Besides, we’re making progress: we both like art. Though,” he added with another charming smile, “I’m told I have the low taste of a barbarian. My assistant mostly runs my art collection for me.” Another sip of wine. “Still, I like what I like and when something strikes my fancy, I buy it whether she thinks it’s top notch ‘as art’ or not.”

Steve licked his lips and tried to think of something to say in response. He couldn’t imagine having money to spend on art, let alone wanting to let someone else buy it for him.

All the art Steve had seen was at the Met on the rare days he could afford the trip to Manhattan and time off from work (or looking for work). And Steve was lucky to live near a world class museum that didn’t charge admissions; otherwise he probably wouldn’t have seen any art except the reproductions he studied at the Public Library. 

He wasn’t sure he thought much of men like Mr. Anthony who’d buy up art and hide it away in their private homes. 

Steve reached for his wine glass and took a sip to cover up his silence.

“What kind of art do you like?” Mr. Anthony asked.

“Lots of different things,” Steve said. Mr. Anthony quirked an eyebrow at the taciturn answer; Steve expanded: “I guess I like art that makes me feel. And art where I really admire the skill and technique.”

“For example?”

“Like the light in the old Dutch masters and the way they captured texture.” 

“Ah, well,” Mr. Anthony said with a wry smile, “Here I must prove my barbarism--never took to the Northern Renaissance. Ugly old men in funny hats!”

Steve couldn’t help the frown that crossed his face at this assessment, but the man just laughed.

“Yes, yes,” Mr. Anthony said amiably, “Someday all too soon I’ll be an ugly old man too.” 

(He may have a screw loose, but he was a far cry from being “an ugly old man”; he was gorgeous and no more than 35, by Steve’s guess.) Steve told himself firmly not to think about  _ that _ .

Mr. Anthony continued: “And four hundred years from now my dashing Stetson fedora will no doubt seem equally absurd.”

Steve laughed. It took him by surprise, but the image of Mr. Anthony in one of van Eyck's giant chaperons or Vermeer’s huge brimmed hats was too absurd.

“Good,” Mr. Anthony said with satisfaction. “That’s much better! Shall I entertain you with my heretically unfashionable views on art? Dare I complain Monet is too pastel and cubism is too ugly?”

Steve scowled and his companion only grinned wider; Steve knew he was being baited, but it seemed oddly . . . playful? 

(It really did seem like flirting . . .)

Steve shook his head and, after a moment’s hesitation, said, “I hope you don’t mind my saying so, Mr. Anthony, but I have to agree with your assistant: you have barbaric taste.”

Mr. Anthony grinned, thoroughly delighted.

“Do, please, Mr. Rogers,” he said, leaning across the table with a rapt expression. “Teach me the error of my ways. Why am I wrong about Monet?”

Steve swallowed roughly, feeling thoroughly off kilter. Steve gazed into those wide brown eyes, finding it hard to concentrate on Monet with such a beautiful man studying his face so intently and-- 

Steve felt sucker punched by the sudden recognition of just how attracted he was to this strange man.

(Don’t let him know! You can’t-- It’s not--)

Steve took a rough breath.

(You can hide it. You’ve done it often enough before.)

“Well,” Steve said slowly, trying to pick up the thread of their conversation again, “dismissing something for its color pallet seems a bit shallow.”

“Ah, but it isn’t just too pastel,” Mr. Anthony said playfully. “It’s also too blurry!”

Steve was too turned around inside to answer with a quip. He took a long drink from his water glass then said, “I guess Monet just isn’t to your taste, sir.”

“But his paintings  _ are  _ to yours,” Mr. Anthony pressed. “What do you see in them?”

Steve looked up; the man’s expression had lost some of its droll edge and there was something sincerely inquiring in his slightly raised eyebrows, the cock of his head to the left.

Steve looked away and tried to summon the memory of that first magical glimpse in the Met—eager to escape the present disorienting moment in a joyful past. He struggled to translate that remembered sensation into words.

“When I look at Monet--the Rouen Cathedral studies, or the giant Water Lilies--” Steve said slowly, “it’s like looking at the world through water; it’s different, sure, even I guess kind of blurry like you said, but there’s a truth there as well as beauty. Something raw and real about it. Something you can take with you, so when you look at a garden or a building again after you can still see it as itself, yes, but also different. More beautiful somehow.”

“A philosopher as well as an art critic,” Mr. Anthony murmured with a smile after a few moments.

Steve flushed, unsure if he were being mocked or teased; he said a little abruptly, “But it doesn’t matter.” He waved his hand. “Art. Beauty. It’s all so subjective anyway.”

“To be sure,” Mr. Anthony replied, something soft but intense in his tone. “What one man finds shatteringly, achingly beautiful--what can bring him nearer that transcendence, that truth through the water--may seem  _ ugly _ . . . even foul, repellant to another man.” Mr. Anthony licked his lips and looked at Steve from under his lashes. “Don’t you think, Mr. Rogers?”

There was something electric in the air and Steve’s heart started to race; he opened and closed his mouth, confused, unsure what to say--

He was saved from replying as the server entered. He wheeled in a large tray of covered silver chafing dishes and set it up next to their table. The tension dissipated.

They spoke in Italian, server frowning and shaking his head, before refilling Mr. Anthony’s empty wine glass, bowing stiffly, and taking his leave.

“I’ve offended poor Salvatore’s sensibilities,” Mr. Anthony explained, “by ordering a lot of food all at once--like a barbarian--instead of staging everything properly in courses. And by serving us myself, like a peasant. Or a woman.” He laughed and shrugged. “But I wanted you to taste a lot of different dishes to see which you fancy and I thought this would be more convivial. You don’t mind, do you?”

Steve shook his head, bemused. This might be the most bizzare afternoon of his life. Ever time he thought he had things figured out, found a stable footing, it turned to sand beneath his feet. 

The rich, beautiful man who would pay to beat him up was now fussing over serving Steve a plate of decadent foods, rambling to him about the various dishes in what seemed to be about 50% Italian.

“There,” Mr. Anthony said with pleasure, setting the plate in front of Steve. “There’s more of everything, so don’t be shy in telling me what you like best.”

Steve waited politely as the man served his own plate. There was something homey about the whole thing and Steve was suddenly struck by the idea that Mr. Anthony might be  _ lonely _ .

It was a strange thing to consider--that someone strong, handsome, rich, and charming could lack for company. But since Bucky’d gone west for work, all the meals alone wore on Steve, and he thought, perhaps, he recognized the signs in his host’s manners. 

(Perhaps the man’s violent inclinations drove people away?)

Still, it would cost Steve nothing to be . . . a little  _ warmer _ . And it might be smart too.

“Everything smells amazing,” Steve told his host with a smile. It was little more than basic politeness, but Steve managed a more friendly, sociable tone.

His host lit up with pleasure.

“I’m so glad.” Then he started to say in a joking tone, “You--”

(Steve prepared for the predictable follow through: “--look like you could use a good meal.” Yeah. Never heard that one before.)

But Mr. Anthony raised his glass and said, “Your good health.”

Steve did the same. “And yours.”

Steve’s stomach rumbled so loudly he wondered if his companion could hear it across the table. 

Steve lifted a fork--probably the wrong one--over the jumbled heap of foods, struck again by how homey it was compared to the wood-paneled, leather-upholstered opulence of the restaurant’s private dining room. His mouth watered. Mr. Anthony had told him what everything was, but he hadn’t really taken it in. 

Steve decided to try one of the pastas first.

He couldn’t hold back a sound of pleasure at the richly mingled flavors of cream and cheese and bacon.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” Mr. Anthony asked, clearly pleased by Steve’s reaction. Steve nodded.

“Excellent,” Steve agreed, diving in for another bite and reminding himself sternly to eat slowly, chew like a civilized man, and not make himself sick with too much rich food too fast.

Steve was keenly aware he should probably be making more of an effort to make conversation, but he’d never been great at small talk and, at least for now, Mr. Anthony seemed content to enjoy his meal and smile as he watched Steve eat, exchanging only the occasional remark about the excellence of the food.

And the food was phenomenal, the best he’d ever had: chicken in a spicy tomato sauce with layers of cheese, little round dumplings in an electric green sauce, thinly shaved cured meat wrapped around slices of melon.

Steve had never been more attuned to his table manners than in that fancy restaurant under Mr. Anthony’s rapt gaze. The man barely glanced away from him. Steve could feel a blush creeping up on him from the silent scrutiny.

It was all like a surreal spin on one of Steve’s impossible daydreams--the beautiful man, the fancy restaurant, the playful flirtation--but filtered through the lens of Dali or Bosch, distorted and wrong.

Mr. Anthony wasn’t trying to woo him. Steve didn’t understand what he was trying to do, but whatever it was, it was the prelude to money changing hands and something sick and brutal.

(But  _ he _ ’ll find it beautiful. Isn’t that what he said? Like Monet. Does that make it better or worse?.)

Steve’s breath caught again and his heart raced. He blushed and looked down abruptly. 

He felt like he’d walked into an ambush; whatever strange trap this man had laid for him--the lunch, the wine, the conversation--had taken him hook, line, and sinker. 

Steve reminded himself sternly of the circumstances that brought him there. (This man wants to pay to tie you up and beat you. And you’re desperate enough to let him.)

“May I serve you some more?” Mr. Anthony asked. “Did you decide on a favorite dish?”

Steve shook his head, unable to imagine another bite now; the delicious lunch churned viciously in his stomach. He dropped his fork clumsily and it clattered loudly against his plate.

“Mr. Rogers?” the man said softly, leaning forward with concern.

“Perhaps now we could talk about the job, Mr. Anthony,” Steve said. His tone was grim and Mr. Anthony immediately drew back.

“Ah. Yes,” he said. “Of course.”

Steve stared at him as he looked away, eyes going unfocused and mouth pinched. Steve tried not to fidget impatiently as the silence stretched between them. (Whatever you’re playing at, I won’t fall for it. I won’t.)

At last, Mr. Anthony looked back to him with a wan smile: “Did I already mention that I didn’t think you’d come?”

It seemed like he might say more, but at that moment the waiter arrived again, presumably making inquiries about their meal. They exchanged a few words in Italian and the waiter retreated once more, closing the door firmly behind him. In a fit of anxiety, Steve listened for the sound of a lock turning, but when he glanced over his shoulder at the door there didn’t even seem to be one.

Mr. Anthony rose to his feet.

“Perhaps for this conversation we could move somewhere more comfortable?”

Steve felt a momentary spike of dread, but the man merely gestured to a pair of overstuffed armchairs in the corner.

Steve nodded and took a seat, but instead of sitting across from him Mr. Anthony perched on the edge of Steve’s chair, towering over him. Steve craned his neck back to look up into those heavily lidded brown eyes.

“A last favor to ask,” the man said with a coaxing smile. “May I have your hand?”

Steve nearly snapped ‘what for?’ but he needed the money, so he supposed it didn’t really matter. 

(Surely, Mr. Anthony wouldn’t beat him up in the back of an Italian restaurant? Then again if he were a mobster, who could say? And as long as he got paid, did Steve care?)

Steve placed his hand in Mr. Anthony’s and watched in confusion as he pushed Steve’s sleeve back a little, then caressed his palm, his wrist, the back of his hand. The touch made Steve shiver and the man smiled.

At last, he clasped Steve’s wrist in his right hand and let his left play idly across Steve’s palm as he spoke.

“No doubt you have many questions. Ask me anything you like,” Mr. Anthony said softly. “I’ll answer truthfully.”

“Why me?” 

Steve hadn’t meant to say it out loud, but it had been eating at him since the meeting with Miss Rushman. 

(Is it because I look easy to break? Do I look like I deserve it, like I’m asking for it? Can you tell I’ve been beaten before?)

“I don’t know.” Mr Anthony shrugged. “I guess because you’re beautiful.” 

Steve gave an incredulous snort, but the man continued: “I saw that drawing of you and I had to have it. I’ve no idea if the technique was any good--my assistant says it was in fact only middling--but  _ you _ were so beautiful. A glorious mix of seeming contradictions.”

Mr. Anthony licked his lips; he glanced away for a second, then looked back. He continued:

“Miss Rushman knows my . . . tastes rather intimately. Late one night, after more scotch then I probably should have had, I spoke rather unguardedly about the model in my precious new drawing. She took it upon herself to find you for me.” He shrugged. “I didn’t ask her too, but I think she hoped this might make me . . . happy.”

“So she’s your friend?” Steve asked, fixing oddly on the inconsequential. “I thought she worked for you.”

“Must they be mutually exclusive?” the man asked with a grim twist at his lips. “If that’s true, you’ll leave me precious few friends, Mr. Rogers.”

Steve dropped his gaze to watch as Mr. Anthony’s fingers resumed their delicate caress of his palm. Steve’s heart was racing and his breathing was going rough; he feared he might have an asthma fit. The tension grew unbearable.

Steve looked up abruptly and asked in a choked voice--half angry, half distraught: “What do you want from me?”

“I want,” Mr. Anthony said in a sultry voice, “to see you naked and trembling under my hands, helpless and gasping. I want you to beg me for more until you’re a shuddering wreck of pleasure and pain, covered in my marks. I want to hold you in my ropes, in my arms, to take you apart and put you together again.”

Steve was trembling, his heart pounding. He wasn’t sure if it was more from fear or arousal--or which would be worse. His cheeks burned and he couldn’t seem to get enough air or look away from the blown brown eyes staring into his as if they’d devour him whole.

A hint of a smile played at the man’s lips as he leaned a little nearer to ask, “Would you like that?”

Steve stared up him paralyzed, starting to panic. 

(Answer! You have to answer!)

No sound came out.

Mr. Anthony leaned back with a hint of a frown. He squeezed Steve’s hand; he probably meant it to be reassuring.

“Are you quite well?”

Steve nodded. 

The man hesitated and glanced away for a moment before asking, tone soft and gentle, “Have you ever been with a man before?”

It was reflex--Steve jerked his hand out of the man’s suddenly loose grasp.

“Ah.” A flash of disappointment crossed those handsome features. 

“Forgive me,” Mr. Anthony said and moved to the other chair. “A misunderstanding; I thought you found me . . . to your taste. Wishful thinking no doubt.” 

Mr. Anthony got up abruptly and crossed to the sideboard. He poured himself a glass of amber liquid and held the decanter up inquiringly to Steve; he shook his head. Mr. Anthony took a long sip and returned to the other armchair. 

“Apologies, Mr. Rogers,” he said, eyes fixed on the Turkish rug. “I thought Miss Rushman had been clear. I, of course, understand if you’re not interested.”

“No!” Steve said urgently and Mr. Anthony looked at him with surprise. “I--I’m still interested. I just--you surprised me. That’s all.”

“Ah. We should talk, then.” He smiled softly. “I wouldn’t like to surprise you again.”

“Talk?”

“Yes. Everything is negotiable,” Mr. Anthony said. “Hard no’s are usually a good starting place. Things you hate, anything you fear; I’d never want you to try and submit to something you can’t bear.”

Steve swallowed roughly. He’d been lulled--the lunch, the conversation, the art--into forgetting why he was there. (You can’t screw this up.) It was an interview, and he was pretty sure he’d insulted the boss earlier.

Steve’s cheeks were burning; it was bad enough he was reduced to this, but now he’d have to beg for the job. It would have been easier to just get punched as he walked through the door.

Steve took a deep breath and forced words to come out, slow and measured, gaze downcast.

“As long as your friend didn’t misrepresent what you’re offering,” Steve said, glad there was no tremor in his voice, “then I doubt there’s anything you want to do to me that I couldn’t bear, Mr. Anthony.”

The man took a sharp breath, but Steve kept his eyes fixed on his hands folded in his lap, waiting to hear if he’d ruined his shot. The silence stretched.

“That's true, isn't it,” the man murmured softly at last. “You’d take anything I dished out, wouldn’t you?”

Steve flushed with humiliation, but Mr. Anthony sounded sad rather than exultant. 

“I’ve practically got a gun to your head,” he said and threw back the rest of his scotch.

Steve swallowed; everything was going wrong.

“I’m . . .  _ willing.  _ You're not threatening me,” Steve said, getting a little angry at the sense he was being patronized and condescended to. “You’re not forcing me to do anything, Mr. Anthony.”

“No,” Mr. Anthony agreed. “It’s the economy with its finger on the trigger, but the gun is there all the same.”

He got abruptly to his feet and strode across the room to write something in a notebook. He tore the page out angrily and reached into his jacket, then turned around again.

“There,” he said abruptly, holding it out to Steve.

Steve blinked and took it.

“No more gun,” Mr. Anthony said wryly and went to pour himself another drink. 

Steve’s stomach flipped when he realized that wrapped in the sheet of paper there was a one-hundred dollar bill. He’d never seen one before.

On the other side of the room, Mr. Anthony took a deep breath and a long drink; he turned back to Steve with a queer little smile. 

“My address is in there,” he said. “If you ever decide you’re interested in what I have to offer, come by any time. I’ll be happy to see you. If not, I’ll quite understand.”

“Sir, I--” Steve shook his head, but couldn’t get the words out. 

He knew he shouldn’t accept the money; knew he hadn’t earned it. 

But he did need it.

Mr. Anthony gave him a sharp smile.

“Consider it payment for the lesson in art appreciation over lunch,” he said, “and for the awkward ordeal that followed. Please don’t insult me by declining. Show me at least that much kindness.”

Steve couldn’t pretend to understand how this was kindness, but he nodded. 

His host let out a long breath, as if relieved. 

“And now,” Mr. Anthony said, “I’ll bid you farewell.”

“Of course, sir,” Steve said, getting awkwardly to his feet. He held out his hand, but instead of shaking it Mr. Anthony raised it to his lips for a kiss.

“Goodbye, Mr. Rogers,” he murmured, looking up from under his lashes. “Be well.”

With that, he abruptly left the room.

Steve sank back down into his chair, head swimming. He opened the paper again; there was still a 100$ bill wrapped in it, and a terse note written in heavy ink and a bold hand: 

_ 100 5th Ave; come any time. --Tony  _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope you liked this! It was so fun to finally get Tony into this story! Kind words cherished extra hard right now.
> 
> FYI: The story Tony references re: Silent Cal is a famous anecdote from the 1920s about President Calvin Coolidge, who was famously taciturn. A woman at a party once made a bet with a friend that she could get him to say three words or more; he overheard her and at the end of the evening approached to say, “You lose.”
> 
> And here's an example of a Northern Renaissance chaperon; I’d frankly love to see Tony Stark wearing this!: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chaperon_(headgear)#/media/File:Portrait_of_a_Man_by_Jan_van_Eyck-small.jpg
> 
> Thanks for joining me on this little adventure! :)
> 
> p.s. As I mentioned on tumblr (https://ms-meredith-milton.tumblr.com/post/631178760005337088/meredith-irl-things-suck), things IRL are pretty sad for me at the moment, so please no negative comments or even concrit. Writing and sharing this story is my happy distraction from The Bad Things. Thank you!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday to ME!!!! Took the day off to write this. Enjoy! :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have ret-conned the promised salary for Steve's sessions with Tony after doing a bit more research. A tenement studio like Steve rents would be 6$ a month. Given that, 100$ a session would make Steve--by his standards--a rich man. So I knocked the pay down from INSANE (100$) to extravagant (25$). But Tony still gave him 100$ in chapter 3 in an act of extravagance. 
> 
> Sorry for the change; I need it for accuracy and Reasons Later.

Steve paid his back rent and a month in advance. Mr. Thomas--never one to hide his emotions--swung from relieved and overjoyed, to concerned (even suspicious) in about five seconds flat.

It was clear he didn’t think Steve could get that kind of money so fast on the up and up.

(And of course he was right.)

Steve didn’t bother trying to explain or making up a reassuring story. He just said he’d had an unexpected windfall and left it at that. (The truth.)

Steve paid his electric and his gas bill. And he paid back the dollar kind old Mrs. Stein down the hall had insisted on lending him to keep his heat from being shut off; he brought her a little basket of current scones too.

And he still had money left over. 

Steve went to the pawn shop on Fulton. His hold period had long since expired, but he figured it couldn’t hurt. Ma’s earrings and bracelet were gone, but her brooch and da’s pocket watch were still there for sale. Luckily the sharp-eyed shop keeper didn’t seem to remember him, or the price would have doubled.

Steve had accepted them all as lost the last time he’d been too far behind on rent, but it was good to have something back. The watch was nothing fancy, but it was all he had of his father besides a faded photograph and vague memories of a kind laugh and huge hands.

Steve put five whole dollars in the collection plate in an act of thanksgiving and said a prayer for Mr. Anthony’s health and happiness. 

He considered going to confession. But what would he say?

(“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. Or at least, I was going to. Out of desperation. But then the man I was going to sin with gave me a fortune for nothing, so I didn’t actually sin after all.”) Steve shook his head and flushed. 

(And I worry I might be disappointed about that . . .)

Maybe he should go to confession after all.

It had been a week and Steve couldn’t stop thinking about Mr. Anthony.

(Handsome, charming Mr. Anthony, willing to pay a fortune to satisfy his dark, twisted tastes . . . then willing to just give his money away instead.)

And Steve still had money left over. 

He’d hidden it under the mattress, then decided that was too obvious; he found a loose spot in the carpeting in the corner and tucked his money in there instead.

Steve agonized about buying a new suit, something that wouldn’t be patched and darned, so he could wear it to interviews and look more respectable, more like someone who belonged in a good job.

But that would have cleaned him out and Steve was scared to spend too much of his windfall at once. Besides, he didn’t have any interviews yet.

Getting supplies to work on his portfolio was the top priority. He’d nearly landed a good advertising job last year, but they’d wanted someone who could work in color as well as black and white and he had nothing to show them. 

So Steve bought a good set of pastels in vibrant colors.

( _ “Monet . . . too pastel.” _ )

Steve spread out as best he could at his little kitchen table and got to work.

Since Steve didn’t have an interview, he couldn’t craft actual images that they might use at an agency. Instead, he set himself free to make beautiful samples that weren’t tied to any particular product, showing off his conversance with different styles: elegantly stylized, channeling elements of Mucha; humorous, exaggerated French-inspired cartoons; clean-lined, modern fashion plates like Vogue.

It was satisfying. He liked creating.

But what he wanted to draw most, he couldn’t quite permit himself. 

(Wide brown eyes, full lips, sharp cheekbones, strong jaw.)

He should focus on his commercial portfolio. Something he could show. For a real job. 

Steve slid back from the table and went to fetch a glass of water.

He told himself firmly that there was no reason for him to still be thinking about that man, except with Christian charity and gratitude for his selfless generosity.

Or perhaps puzzling over the mystery of his behavior.

That was all. 

There was no other reason to think of him.

( _ “. . .  _ _ because you’re beautiful.” _ )

Steve blushed and shook his head. He downed some water, icy from the tap.

(Had anyone  ever called Steve  _ beautiful _ before?)

Steve put the kettle on the hob for tea and tried not to think about it.

( _ “. . .  _ _ because you’re beautiful.” _ )

What Mr. Anthony had wanted to do to him, it was at least in part because he found Steve  _ beautiful _ ; and he would find what he wanted to do to Steve  _ beautiful  _ too.

(“ _ shatteringly, achingly beautiful _ ”) 

Steve couldn’t imagine how tying someone up and beating them could be beautiful to anyone. Then again the violence wasn’t what he’d described, really; it was how he wanted Steve that figured most prominently. (“ _ naked and trembling . . . helpless and gasping . . . a shuddering wreck of pleasure and pain, covered in my marks.” _ ) 

The way Mr. Anthony described it was . . . less repellent than it should be. 

Not that it mattered. Steve would never see the man again. Obviously. 

(Even if it did sit uneasy with him that he’d taken money for a job he left undone…)

Steve jumped, startled as the kettle whistled. He made a full pot in Ma’s old Brown Betty and went back to his table.

Work. He just needed to concentrate on work. 

Maybe he should try doing some architectural sketches to show more range?

>>>>>>>>>>>>

Three days later, Steve let himself start drawing Mr. Anthony; after all, lots of artists did portraits of family and friends. There was no reason--no rational, logical reason--to suppose a stranger would look at Steve’s drawing and be able to guess he was . . .  _ that way _ inclined. 

Steve decided to start with a few practice sketches in pencil on cheap paper. He began with the basic shape of his face, then concentrated on the eyes. (Large and dark, framed with long lashes and a strong brow.)

Steve had assumed that anyone who wanted to tie a man up and then leave him decorated with bruises must be a quintessential bully who wanted a punching bag who couldn’t resist. But when Mr. Anthony saw Steve’s hesitance--his fear, his desperation--he didn’t act like a bully at all.

( _ “No more gun.” _ )

Steve had laughed in Miss Rushman’s face when she said that if Steve changed his mind and asked “the artist” to stop beating him, he would; but now, he felt certain it was true.

Steve glared down at the page. The eyes still weren’t quite right--not bright enough, not alive. 

Steve made some more tea; mum always said that tea could soothe most problems of heart and mind if you let it. He considered writing another letter to Bucky, but he’d be damned if he could find the words to explain  _ this _ to his best friend. 

Steve moved on to Mr. Anthony’s nose, but realized that its exact shape had begun to fade from his memory. His outline looked first too narrow, then too broad. Steve sighed. 

( _ “. . .  _ _ because you’re beautiful.” _ )

Mr. Anthony’d paid Steve for a job he hadn’t done and Steve was certain he didn’t expect Steve to show up for. 

( _ Warm lips pressed to his hand . . . “Goodbye, Mr. Rogers. . . Be well.” _ )

He knew Steve wouldn’t be coming to find him. Not after giving him 100$.

And obviously, he was right. 

Steve would have to be crazy to go looking for Mr. Anthony now that he wasn’t desperate for money.

  
  


>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

  
  


Steve still had money left over, but he was being very careful with it. He didn’t buy a better coat, even though it was getting colder with every passing day and the wind stung through the worn spots. He didn’t buy a new suit or replace the old wireless Bucky’d left that was now buzzing so bad you’d hardly bother to turn it on. 

On Sunday, Steve put five more dollars in the collection plate--a full tithe-- and went to confession. When he confessed to the sin of greed, he thought Father O’Malley sounded a little surprised--he was usually repenting his temper, after all--but that money did weigh on Steve’s conscience. The money he hadn’t properly earned, in excess of what he’d truly  _ needed _ . And even with his little nest egg hidden under the carpet, Steve kept thinking about Mr. Anthony’s job and everything he could do with that kind of pay. And Steve confessed his desire to commit sins of the flesh, though he didn’t go into detail; he rather suspected Father O’Malley understood and Steve had been confessing that sin for quite a while too, so it was hardly new.

After Mass, Steve took the subway to Fifth Ave and walked through the park to the Met; it was bright and clear, but bitterly cold when the wind whipped up. It wasn’t too crowded for a Sunday and besides, Steve liked to see people enjoying the art, people young and old of all sorts of creeds and colors moving through the galleries and pausing in front of whatever took their fancy. Steve had brought his sketchbook and pencils to make a few quick studies, doing no justice to Raphael, Caravaggio, or El Grecco. When he got hungry, he permitted himself the luxury of an overpriced cup of soup in the new American wing where he could watch the atrium and savor the stately sculptures, though not without a little envy. He’d never be able to work in that medium, but it was so powerful and  _ real _ .

After lunch, Steve was drawn inexorably to the impressionists. The Rouen Cathedral studies had returned to Paris, but he lost himself in the waterlilies. The canvas dwarfed him (and everyone else) and he disappeared into the rich textured swirls of paint, the play of the light. The beauty seen as through a glass darkly.

When the museum closed, Steve wandered up 5th Avenue just curious to see it, the unforgettable # 100. He had no intention of actually knocking on the door. 

(He’d gotten astonishingly good at lying to himself.)

It was a mansion, huge and white, with neoclassical pretensions in the columns and its frieze. 

Steve knocked. (He could be impulsive too.)

The man who answered the door wasn’t Mr. Anthony; he was taller and thinner, in both his build and his face, and apparently British from the accent in which he asked, looking down at Steve, “May I help you?”

“Hello,” Steve said, “I’m here to see Mr. Anthony; he said I could call on him. My name’s Steve Rogers.”

The man raised his eyebrows. 

“I see,” he said, sounding at once surprised and mildly displeased. “Won’t you follow me? I’ll see if Sir is available.” 

The butler--because  _ of course _ Mr. Anthony had an English butler--led Steve down an opulent hallway of marble stones and rich Turkish rugs into a stunning library: floor to ceiling bookshelves, a gorgeous lion-footed desk, everything mahogany and burgundy, a fire in the fireplace and leather armchairs flanking it.

“Won’t you be seated, Mr. Rogers?” the butler said. “I’ll go and announce you.” 

“Thank you.” Steve sank down into the armchair the man had indicated.

Steve nearly apologized for intruding unexpectedly, but he supposed it didn’t make any difference to the man’s butler if he knew in advance about Steve coming or not. 

Heck, until 5 minutes ago, Steve hadn’t known he was coming; at least, he hadn’t meant to.

Steve struggled to sit still as he waited. (What the hell was he thinking? He wasn’t really going to do this, was he?). He clenched his jaw. He checked his father’s pocket watch: 5:21. (But now that he was here, he couldn’t possibly back out.). 

Steve got to his feet and started to pace in front of the fire. He checked the time again: 5:25. He forced himself to sit down. He opened his sketchbook and tried to touch up the details on the Caravaggio from the afternoon. 

He couldn’t concentrate. He got to his feet again and gave in to the urge to pace. There was a book laid open across the arm of the other chair. Curious, Steve examined it:  _ The Sign of the Four _ . Apparently, Mr. Anthony shared his taste for Sherlock Holmes. Steve was about to check the time again when he heard the door open.

Mr. Anthony stepped into the library. He was still gorgeous, though he perhaps looked a little rumpled, wearing another sharp three piece suit, this time navy with a vibrant red pin stripe. And as he approached, Steve thought he looked rather confused, maybe even a trifle worried. He certainly didn’t look delighted or relieved as Steve had rather hoped he might. (It was embarrassing to think that Steve had been obsessively contemplating this man and that he perhaps hadn’t spared Steve another thought.)

Mr. Anthony crossed the room with his hand outstretched.

(Stupid. Did you expect him to be pining after you? Absurd.)

“Mr. Rogers,” the man said, flashing a brief smile. “I confess I’m rather surprised to see you. You’re well, I trust?”

“Quite well, Mr. Anthony,” Steve said, nodding. They shook. “And you?”

“Fine, fine,” he said, waving a hand vaguely. He looked at Steve, perplexed and Steve suddenly wanted to shake him. (You  _ said _ to come any time! If . . .if . . .)

“Are you in some sort of trouble, Mr. Rogers?” Mr. Anthony asked. A flash of disappointment crossed his face. “If you need more--”

“I’m here about the job,” Steve cut in loudly, horrified that Mr. Anthony thought he’d have the gall to take four times the offered pay, not do the work, then come back demanding another handout. “If the job’s still available, that is.”

“Ah,” Mr. Anthony said, still looking a little perplexed. He examined Steve’s face, then said, “At our last meeting, I got the impression you found it . . . undesirable.”

Steve felt his cheeks heat and his stomach twisted. (Would the man make him say it out loud?)

“And  _ you _ said,” Steve replied, trying not to sound vexed. “That if I ever changed my mind and decided I was interested, I should come by any time. So here I am.”

The ensuing silence probably lasted less than a minute, but it seemed like forever to Steve. (He should have managed a more polite tone, more professional. He always let his temper run away with him, sometimes when he had no real cause.) He tried not to shift awkwardly in place.

“So I did,” Mr. Anthony murmured at last, seeming to wake from his reverie, “And here you are.” He asked in a more normal tone, “Would you like to join me for a drink, Mr. Rogers?”

That seemed like a good sign, so Steve nodded. His host (maybe boss?) sauntered to the sideboard and asked, “What’ll it be? I’ve got just about everything.”

“Whiskey soda, please,” Steve said. It was his standard drink, since it didn’t go to his head the way stronger spirits tended to.

Mr. Anthony had a double scotch, neat, but there was no seeming judgement as he handed over Steve’s choice.

“Your good health,” he said.

“And yours,” Steve replied. 

“Come. Have a seat by the fire and we can talk.”

Steve nodded and sat. Mr. Anthony sat across from him and gazed into the fire for a few moments before turning to look expectantly at Steve. Steve licked his lips, but had nothing to say. He took a sip of his whiskey soda and waited for Mr. Anthony to ask him a question.

At last, the man sighed. 

“Forgive me, Mr. Rogers,” Mr. Anthony said, swirling his scotch and watching the legs form on the side of the glass, “if I’m still a little perplexed by your sudden arrival. When last I saw you, you seemed quite repulsed by my proposal.”

Steve shrugged and struggled to figure out what to say. It wasn’t exactly a question after all. And Steve didn’t particularly like the train of thought that had brought him here; he’d no interest in saying any of it out loud.

(Because you find me beautiful. Because I can’t stop thinking about you. Because I could build a better life.)

“I’m afraid, Mr. Rogers,” Mr. Anthony said a little sharply as Steve’s silence stretched on, “That talking with me is an essential part of the job.”

“Yes, sir,” Steve said stiffly. “But I don’t know what to tell you; it’s not that complicated. It’s a good job you’re offering.” 

“So it’s the money that brought you back,” Mr. Anthony said in a flat, neutral tone.

“Of course,” Steve said. “You’re offering damn good pay!” 

The other man’s expression went tight. 

“But . . . it’s not just that,” Steve added hesitantly. Mr. Anthony glanced over at him, something almost hopeful in his expression. 

Steve continued: “Your conduct has shown you to be--” Steve licked his lips, searching for the right phrase, “an honorable man. I--” he hesitated again, “I don’t think it would be a hardship to work for--to do this job-- for an honorable man.”

The beautiful man in the other chair looked at him searchingly and Steve flushed; he realized there was a matching spot of color on his companion’s cheeks. The man blinked rapidly a few times and looked into the fire.

“Thank you, Mr. Rogers,” Mr. Anthony said, his voice soft and intense. “I recognize the compliment you’ve paid me with that assessment of my character. I’m grateful.” He took another sip of his scotch and added, “I hope I won’t disappoint you.” 

They sat in silence for a while but perhaps for the first time it didn’t feel tense or awkward. Steve let out a deep breath. 

“Do you have any questions for me, Mr. Rogers?”

Steve shook his head, then forced himself to speak: “No, sir.”

“Very well.” Mr Anthony finished his scotch. He studied Steve intently as he asked: “Shall we begin tonight?”

Steve’s heart raced and his breath hitched; he felt certain he was blushing again, but he looked back at Mr. Anthony steadily. Unflinching. Steve nodded.

Whatever he saw in Steve’s face, met with his approval; Mr. Anthony smiled.

“I get the strong impression, Mr. Rogers, that you’re--at least where  _ this  _ is concerned--a man of action, rather than words.” Mr. Anthony arched one eyebrow and his smile widened. “So, let’s just dive in, shall we?”

Steve nodded; eager to have the anticipation over and relieved that Mr. Anthony wouldn’t demand he put anything painful into words. He finished his whiskey soda a little too fast, but managed not to cough embarrassingly.

“But before we begin,” Mr Anthony said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees, “There is something very important, I need you to understand. Are you listening, Mr. Rogers?”

“Yes, sir.”

“If at any point when we are together, you wish to leave, you may.” Mr. Anthony said it solemnly, holding Steve’s gaze without blinking. “No matter what I am doing, if you say, ‘stop,’ I will stop and release you. Do you understand?”

Steve nodded.

“And,” Mr. Anthony continued emphatically. “No matter when or why you ask me to stop, I will pay you for the session. Twenty-five dollars. Without fail.”

Steve’s brow furrowed.

“Now you’re frowning,” Mr. Anthony observed. “Tell me why.”

“That hardly seems fair to you, Mr. Anthony.”

The man smiled sharply. “I assure you it is more than fair; it is entirely necessary for my enjoyment. If you can’t promise that you’ll say ‘stop’ when you want to, I’ll never take the pleasure I want from sessions. And as you may have noticed--” he waved a hand around their opulent surroundings, “I’m hardly hurting for funds. So. Do you promise?”

“Do I promise--?”

“Do you promise to say ‘stop’ at any time if you want me to stop what I’m doing to you?”

Steve nodded.

“You have to say it, Mr. Rogers.”

“I promise.”

“And do you believe I’ll keep my word?” There was a hint of tension in Mr. Anthony’s voice.

Steve smiled. “Yes, sir,” he answered with confidence. “Because you’re an honorable man.”

“Thank you,” Mr. Anthony murmured. With that he stood abruptly and placed two logs on the fire, fanning it until it blazed; then he crossed the room and adjusted a dial on the wall. The radiator hissed. He turned back to Steve.

“Our session has officially begun,” Mr. Anthony announced. He took off his blazer and laid it across the back of his chair. He undid two jeweled cufflinks, set them carelessly aside, and began rolling up his sleeves.

“You gave me your real name the first time we met,” Mr. Anthony said. “Before we truly begin, I’ll offer you the same courtesy.” He held out his hand again. “Tony Stark. Pleased to make your better acquaintance.”

“Stark,” Steve repeated as they shook. “Like the pistols? And the automobiles?”

“The very same.”

That explained a lot. The butler, the mansion, the Italian. (There’d always been rumors that Stark senior had gotten his start in the mob, but Steve had never heard any proof--just speculation and usually hush hush.)

“And now, Mr. Rogers,” Mr Anthony—no, Mr Stark—said, settling once more in his chair and observing Steve with a sharp look. “Kindly strip.”

“Here?” Steve asked, startled. 

Mr. Stark nodded and smiled serenely, watching him. 

Steve swallowed and his heart began to race. Slowly, he shrugged out of his jacket and began to slide his tie free. 

(So it begins . . .)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! It's my birthday. Birthday love? Comments? Stuff you liked?
> 
> HUGS! <3
> 
> THANK YOU!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I don't know what happened with this one. But somehow this is what the characters did...

Steve laid his jacket and tie over the arm of the chair. His palms were growing sweaty; his fingers fumbled at the buttons as he undid his shirt. He slid awkwardly out of it and set it with his other clothes.

Mr. Stark was watching him intensely. 

Steve sat for a moment in his undershirt wondering how to proceed. Eventually, he unlaced his shoes, slid them off, then set them aside, folding his socks down into them. 

As he reached for the hem of his undershirt, Steve felt a rush of anxiety at the thought of baring himself to this gorgeous man.

(He already saw . . . he finds you  _ beautiful _ .)

Steve pulled his undershirt off abruptly, leaving his thin chest bare; his nipples peaked despite the warmth of the fire. He bit his lip and didn’t look at Mr. Stark as he stood up and undid his trousers. Steve wasn’t hard; he wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. 

Steve’s chest heaved and he kept his eyes fixed on the rug as he stepped out of his trousers and smalls then laid them aside. He shivered--though from nerves or chill, he wasn’t sure. 

“Beautiful,” Stark whispered. 

Steve glanced up and found the man’s rapt gaze trained on his face. Steve’s cheeks burned and he could feel the blush spreading down his throat.

Stark licked his lips. Steve watched as Stark’s eyes ran across his thin arms, his narrow shoulders, his sunken chest and jutting ribs. (His frail, flawed body…) Steve looked away as Mr. Stark’s gaze dropped lower. 

“You’re lovely, darling,” he murmured. 

Steve shivered again, feeling at once chilled and burning. 

(Nobody’d ever called him  _ darling _ before.) 

“Are you warm enough?” Mr. Stark asked. 

Steve gave a tight little nod. His tongue felt too big for his mouth and his throat was oddly tight. 

“Then won’t you kneel for me?” Mr. Stark asked. “Just there, on the rug. No, a little closer to the fire, I think; don’t want you to get chilled. Yes, right there.”

Steve knelt, sitting back on his heels, unsure what to do with his hands. He curled in on himself without meaning to and looked up at Mr. Stark uncertainly. The man smiled down at him. 

“I’ll just get you positioned myself, shall I?”

Unsure if that were some sort of code, Steve’s whole body went tight as Stark approached. He prepared for a blow. 

The man knelt on the thick rug beside Steve and laid a calloused hand very softly on Steve’s shoulder, turning him more towards Stark’s chair. Steve forced himself to shift his body as directed and then let Stark position his palms to rest facing up on his upper thighs. 

Mr. Stark stroked Steve’s knee and murmured, “Spread your legs for me just a little wider.”

Steve’s body coiled tight, heart pounding at once thrilled and frightened; he complied and his cock and balls shifted to hang further exposed. Awkward and vulnerable. He fought the powerful urge to slam his knees closed and jerk away.

Steve shuddered.

Stark reached up to cup Steve’s chin. 

“And your head, just so,” Mr. Stark said as he tilted Steve’s head down and slightly to the side towards the light of the fire. 

Stark was so close Steve could feel his warm breath against his cheek.

“There now,” Mr. Stark murmured. “You’re doing so well for me already, beautiful.”

Steve licked his lips; he should feel chilled, kneeling naked on the hearth, but with the roaring fire and his rushing blood he felt almost too warm.

Stark ran his fingers lightly through Steve’s hair. Torn between shrinking away and leaning into the touch, Steve managed (barely) to stay still.

“Now,” Stark said, taking his place in his chair once more. “I want you to stay just like that, taking long, deep breaths. Don’t move. If you need to move, I want you to ask me for permission first. Do you understand?”

Steve was about to nod when it occurred to him that perhaps that would count as moving. So instead he forced out a harsh whisper: “Yes, sir.”

“Perfect,” Mr. Stark answered. “You’re doing so well. Now all I want is to sit here and admire you for the next--” he checked his wrist watch “--twenty minutes. All you have to do is keep breathing, relax, and sit there looking beautiful. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes, sir,” Steve whispered.

“Deep breath then, darling,” Stark said, voice almost teasing. 

Steve forced himself to comply. He closed his eyes and pulled the air slowly and steadily into his lungs, then let it out again. 

And again.

The last thing he needed was to trigger an asthma attack and show Stark just how bad at breathing he could be.

Steve thought Stark was going to hurt him and . . . do  _ sex things _ to him. The way Stark had touched Steve earlier made his body yearn and his heart race. 

But now Mr. Stark was just  _ sitting _ there. 

Steve should be relieved. Obviously.

And he was just supposed to sit still, so (so far) this was actually a lot more like modeling than he’d expected. (But it still felt nothing like modeling…)

Steve took another deep breath and finally opened his eyes; he kept them down, fixed on the plush burgundy, navy, and golden patterns of the Turkish rug.

Steve licked his lips.

Mr. Stark said twenty minutes; he could do that. He’d been still way longer than that for Professor Ellis’s drawing class. 

Steve wondered how long it had been so far. Probably only a few minutes, but he already wanted to move. He traced the blue swirls in front of him with his eyes. (He had a feeling he was gonna be real familiar with the pattern of that rug by the end of it.)

But maybe Stark was  _ doing  _ something. Maybe he wasn’t just sitting there staring at Steve.

Steve snuck a quick glance up at Stark from under his lashes, half expecting to catch him at something. But he was just sitting there, looking at Steve. 

Steve glanced up again. Stark’s look wasn’t the hot, devouring gaze he’d seen before; he seemed rather contemplative? 

He didn’t see what Stark could be getting out of this. From this angle, he couldn’t even tell if the man was hard in his trousers or not. Steve wasn’t sure what he was hoping for though, so perhaps it was for the best he couldn’t tell. 

He wondered how long it had been now.

Wouldn’t Stark get bored? Just sitting there? He wasn’t drawing, wasn’t translating Steve into art. Steve frowned at the carpet.

Stark shifted in his seat and Steve darted another glance at him. The man was unbuttoning his vest. 

Steve’s heart--which had begun to slow again after its initial confused panic--now kicked back into high gear. His mouth went dry.

(This is it. Now he’ll--)

“You’re supposed to be breathing for me, sweetheart.”

Steve sucked in an abrupt lungfull and realized he’d started holding his breath.

“That’s better,” Stark said softly. “Slow and deep.”

Steve forced himself to comply, but it did little to slow his heart again.

Stark stood, shrugged out of his vest, and laid it across the back of his chair. He crossed the room and Steve was tempted to look, but he’d been given one meager task--sit still and  _ breathe-- _ and he didn’t want to do any worse at it than it seemed he was already. 

Steve heard some rustling and then a needle drop; the soft, slow tone of a piano drifted through the room from the victrola in the corner. Above it, Steve heard the clink of glass. 

Stark returned with a briefcase, a thick blue blanket, and a glass of dark red wine. He pulled his tie free and sat down once more. He took a contemplative sip and examined Steve. 

The lilting sound of the piano washed over them, seeming to flicker with the firelight.

Mr. Stark smiled and took another sip of his wine. 

“You know,” he said in a soft conversational tone, “My assistant, Pepper--the one who runs my art collection--she says that I’m too restless and barbaric to actually give any work of art my attention for more than ten minutes.”

Mr. Stark smiled again and Steve was sorely tempted to move so it would be easier to see his expression. But he didn’t; he stayed just as Stark had placed him.

“I’m inclined to think she’s wrong,” Stark added. He crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair.    
  


“You’re lovely like this, you know,” Mr. Stark observed quietly. “All creamy skin, like you’ve been carved out of marble, glowing in the firelight.”

(Oh.)

Steve’s breath hitched. 

He wasn’t a model, being translated into art. Not for Mr. Stark.

He  _ was _ the art.

Steve’s briefly dormant blush returned full force and he could picture it in his head (the way he’d look to Stark) as the pink spread from his cheeks, down his throat, until even his chest was flushed. 

The hot, prickling feeling spread across Steve’s skin, giving him goosebumps, but not from cold. His blood was rushing to his core and he felt a tell-tale tingling. His cock twitched.

“Well now,” Stark murmured, leaning forward. “Isn’t  _ that _ delightful.”

Steve’s breath hitched again and he felt his cock swell eagerly under Stark’s rapt gaze.

It had never been harder to sit still. 

“You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you, darling?”

The art students had  _ ignored it _ , but Mr. Stark wasn’t just staring, he was  _ talking about it _ .

Steve’s stomach flopped and he felt a little dizzy. 

“Deep breaths, dear,” Stark reminded.

Steve sucked in a lungful and let it out slowly. It helped, but he still pursed his lips resentfully and glared at the carpet.

Steve wasn’t sure which was worse--Stark reminding him to breathe or that he apparently needed the reminder.

Mr. Stark chuckled and Steve glanced up at him.

“Don’t be vexed with me,” he said, smiling warmly. He batted his eyelashes. “I can’t help that I make you breathless, sweetheart.”

And goddamn if Steve’s breath didn’t hitch again at the flirtation and the look in Stark’s eyes. 

Steve dropped his gaze again and swallowed roughly.

(What the hell’s the matter with you, Rogers?)

His eyes prickled, so Steve closed them against the shameful threat of tears. 

(So you’re a queer? Fine. But do you have to be so goddamn  _ weird  _ about it too? He’s just  _ looking  _ at you.)

Steve took a long deep breath. Then another. He heard Stark let out an approving little hum.

(Maybe it was ok. Nobody’d know but Stark. And he was even weirder than Steve.)

Stark was still looking at him--his flushed skin, his bowed head, his needy cock. Steve felt the rush of that look mix with the shame to make his body throb. His prick leaked and Steve suddenly wondered if he’d make a mess on the rug.

“There now, darling,” Mr. Stark said very quietly. “Twenty minutes. You’ve done beautifully. You can move now.”

Steve looked up, startled; when Stark’s words registered properly, Steve slammed his knees together at last. He licked his lips and rolled his shoulder, shifting about to ease the spots that had begun to grow stiff.

“Would you like some water?” Mr. Stark asked. Steve nodded.

He wasn’t sure if he was relieved or intimidated by the fact he could now tell Stark was hard. (It at least boded well for Steve’s job prospects…)

Stark brought him a glass and for a moment Steve got the strangest impression that Stark was going to hold it for him like the priest held the chalice at Mass, but when he reached for the cup Stark handed it over. 

Steve took a few long sips and set it aside on the hearth. 

“Are you feeling alright?” Stark asked.

Steve nodded.

“Remember your promise,” Stark said. “If you want to stop, say ‘stop’ and you can go. I’ll pay you for the session.” 

Steve was silent. The moment stretched on.

“In that case,” Stark said at last, “Are you ready to continue?”

Steve nodded.

“Perfect.”

Stark lifted the briefcase onto his lap and opened it with a loud snap. He pulled out two coils of black rope, closed the briefcase, and set it aside. 

The sight of the rope sent Steve’s heart racing once more and he wondered distantly if all this tension--fear, arousal, anticipation--was good for the damned thing.

(So Stark was going to do something . . .  _ dark _ after all.) Steve licked his lips. (And the realization did nothing to quell his still leaking prick, even as his heart raced with fear.) 

“Now, darling,” Stark said, “I want you to kneel right here--” he pointed between his spread knees, “-- and give me your wrists.”

It was hard to force himself closer, but Steve did it, cock and balls aching and awkward between his legs as he shuffled near. 

Steve raised his hands, but instead of looping the rope around them, Stark leaned down to kiss each one. It was oddly tender.

“Keep breathing for me, sweetheart,” Mr. Stark murmured as he began to uncoil the rope very slowly, almost reverently. 

Steve took a deep breath and tried to shove his instinctive fear away. It was oddly mesmerizing to watch Stark unwind the rope with such deliberate attention.

“I’m going to bind your wrists now,” Mr. Stark announced. (Stating the bloody obvious.) Steve said nothing; he sat perfectly still. 

_ Soft _ . 

That was Steve’s startled thought as Mr. Stark laid out the rope and then began to wind it around his wrists. The rope itself was incredibly soft, but there was something oddly soft about Stark’s manner as well. 

Steve watched the way the rope circled each wrist and then the way Stark looped the rope back between his wrists--keeping them securely apart, not crushed together the way Steve expected. The rope didn’t pinch or bite. 

“What a sight,” Stark said. “My dark bindings around your alabaster wrists. Beautiful. Thank you, darling.”

Stark kissed the back of Steve’s bound hands and another shot of confused arousal raced through Steve’s body. He blushed.

“Now, I want you stretched out by the fire,” Mr. Stark told him, still holding Steve’s hands. “Arms above your head, ankles together. But other than that I just want you to make yourself comfortable. All right, darling?”

Steve nodded.

He could do this. (It wasn’t actually  _ hard _ .)

Steve shuffled over closer to the fire and laid down, bracing himself on one elbow to ease his way. Having his arms up made his ribs stand out more and he hated to think how breakable he must look to Stark like that. (Though he supposed that must be part of his appeal…)

Raising his bound arms over his head made them feel more restrained than they had--perhaps it was having them out of sight?--and he felt a little rush of anxiety. 

Steve pushed the anxiety away and shifted about a bit trying to get comfortable. The rug was thick and soft, but Steve’s back always gave him trouble so it wasn’t easy to find a good pose. 

Mr. Stark waited patiently, watching him twist about. At last, Steve found a position on his side he thought he could hold without having his shoulders or his poor spine ache; he went still. 

The position made his cock jut obscenely. (He wondered if Stark would like it.)

“All right there, my dear?” Mr. Stark asked. 

Steve nodded again. Stark hadn’t said anything about wanting Steve to be silent, but somehow it seemed hard to get words out. 

Stark stood, looming over him and drinking him in. From this angle, the outline of Stark’s hard cock looked huge. (He wants you.)

The sound of the piano swirled around them as the fire flickered. 

Steve stared back at Mr. Stark. The man smiled; Steve watched his eyes travel all along Steve’s body, very very slowly. He began carefully to uncoil the second length of rope.

Once it was free, Mr. Stark knelt at Steve’s feet. Steve was struck again by how very handsome the man was.

“I’m going to bind your ankles now,” Stark informed him. He ran the back of his hand down Steve’s slim calf. “Unless of course you call a stop.” 

Steve frowned at the repeated suggestions he might cry uncle so easily; Stark just grinned. 

“You’re very pretty when you glare at me, my dear,” he said with a little smile. 

Steve huffed.

Mr. Stark lifted Steve’s legs into his lap. Steve let out a surprised little sound; it prompted Stark to give him that annoyingly soothing “shhhhhh” of his. He stroked his hands up and down Steve’s legs. Steve noticed again that Stark’s hands were really rough for a rich guy, but not unpleasantly so. He wondered how the man got so many callouses.

As Stark laid the rope across Steve’s ankles, Steve realized abruptly how much more helpless he’d be with his feet bound. Sure, it would be inconvenient to need to get away or something with his hands tied, but he could probably manage something. It was different if he couldn’t even walk. 

Steve got a sudden humiliating image of himself, crawling naked and helpless across the floor. He flushed scarlet and closed his eyes, as if that would block the image, but his idiot dick was as enthusiastic as ever.

Mr. Stark rubbed his ankle as he looped the rope around in intricate patterns.

“There, dear,” he murmured. “You’re doing so well.”

Steve licked his lips and looked away.

“There,” Stark said with evident satisfaction as he checked his handiwork. “Isn’t that beautiful?”

He knelt with Steve’s bound feet in his lap and looked down with a smile. 

Steve turned his eyes to the fire and squirmed slightly, unable to resist the temptation of testing the knots; they were, as he had guessed, very secure. (No escaping now.) Stark stroked a hand up Steve’s leg.

Another image flashed suddenly across Steve’s mind: he was on hands and knees, ass in the air and face pushed into the rug, tightly bound, sobbing as Stark grunted and used him from behind.

Steve’s body jerked and his flesh crawled.

(He’d probably bleed, wouldn’t he?)

“Sweetheart?”

Steve’s eyes flew open.

Mr. Stark looked down at him in concern, brow furrowed and brown eyes wide, frowning. He held his hand out, but didn’t touch Steve.

Steve realized with embarrassment that he’d yanked his ankles from Stark’s lap. He licked his lips and tried to catch his breath.

“Do you want to stop now?” Stark asked very quietly.

This time, Steve didn’t glare. 

He thought about it, staring back into Stark’s wide eyes. 

(It was probably dumb, but Bucky always said he had more guts than sense.)

Steve took a deep breath. He placed his bound feet back where they had been in Stark’s lap; he settled his arms into their previous position.

When Steve saw the way Stark’s expression melted at the sight, he felt certain he’d made the right call.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Stark whispered. He licked his lips and reached out to caress Steve’s calf again with a hesitant hand. 

(Besides, he’d  _ agreed  _ to be hurt. It was part of the gig.)

As Stark rubbed his ankles, Steve remembered Miss Rushman’s words: “He’ll hurt you, but he’d never harm you.”

As he looked at Stark’s hesitant motions, Steve felt strangely embarrassed and disappointed in himself. (No goddamn control. Letting your mind play tricks on you. After he’s been nothing but decent too.)

He looked up at Stark’s handsome face and smiled. Stark smiled back; he was breathtaking in his shirtsleeves, looking down at Steve so sweetly.

After a few moments, Stark set Steve’s feet down.

“So beautiful,” Mr. Stark murmured. 

Stark stretched out behind him on the rug and propped up on his elbow to look down at Steve with a little smile. He brushed Steve’s cheek with his knuckles. It made Steve shiver.

“Bad?” Stark asked.

Steve shook his head.

“Cold?”

Steve shook his head again and Stark smiled.

Moving very slowly and broadcasting his movements (as if approaching a skittish dog), Stark stroked his hand across Steve’s shoulders, down his arm, and back. His hand was warm, but made Steve shiver again. This time, Stark didn’t ask about it.

At first, Stark lavished his attentions on Steve’s arms and shoulders, but soon his large hand wandered lower, stroking down Steve’s back to caress his hip, then move up his side and repeat the process again.

Steve came prepared to take a beating and for some sort of sex stuff; all Stark’s soft sensuality was bewildering. (And dangerous--too easy to forget reality, to forget why he’s there.)

Steve’s breath hitched and his heart raced again.

“Aren’t you lovely?” Mr. Stark whispered roughly into Steve’s ear. The man’s warm breath sent heat coursing through Steve’s body; his chest heaved.

Stark pressed his face to Steve’s throat and nuzzled him; the contrast of his soft lips and the gentle scrape of his goatee gave Steve goosebumps. 

Mr. Stark’s fingers stroked his hip and down his leg, just skirting around the swell of his ass. It was hard to stay still with Stark’s careful hands exploring his body. 

Steve kept expecting pain or at least something more obviously sexual--for Stark to touch his cock, or grab between his legs--but Stark seemed happy to just lay there  _ petting  _ him.

Then Stark dragged his nails down Steve’s back in a slow line and Steve shuddered so violently in his arms it was nearly a convulsion and the heat rushed through his body.

Steve’s dick leapt, desperate and needy.

“Another delightful surprise,” Stark whispered hotly against Steve’s shoulder. 

Stark scratched him again and Steve gasped and threw his head back.

“Gorgeous.”

Stark nipped his earlobe and Steve moaned.

Mr. Stark pulled Steve’s body against his, hard chest against Steve’s back and his hips slotted to Steve’s. Steve could feel Stark’s erection against his ass, pressing through his trousers. He waited to feel disgust or horror or for another intrusive, frightening vision. 

As Stark alternated gentle strokes of his hand and thrilling rakes of his nails across Steve’s exposed skin, the horror never came. 

Relieved, Steve sagged into Stark’s arms.

“So beautiful,” Stark murmured, pressing his lips to Steve’s shoulder.

He caressed Steve’s chest and ran his thumb deliberately back and forth across Steve’s nipple until Steve was trembling.

Then Mr. Stark pinched it.

Steve cried out and his cock spurted; he writhed against Stark’s body.

“Perfect,” Stark said roughly. 

Stark wrapped a leg around Steve’s and reached up to press Steve’s bound wrists into the rug, holding him pinned. Stark twisted Steve’s other nipple and Steve moaned and struggled as the sensations rushed through him. His convulsions ground his ass back against Stark’s dick, but he couldn’t care (maybe even liked it).

Stark pinched him, harder this time, and Steve tossed and writhed, wanting to escape and wanting more all at once. Stark groaned and held him tighter. He raked his nails across Steve’s chest and he could imagine the pink marks they’d leave. Steve’s cock wept.

“Gorgeous,” Stark whispered. “Fuck, darling. So lovely.”

Steve thought he might be losing track of time and wondered how long it was safe for his heart to pound like this, for his body to be wound so tight. (He wondered how much longer until he’d beg Stark to touch him, to fuck him, to let him come.)

Steve threw his head back and cried out again as Stark bit his neck.

Suddenly, Stark rolled over on top of him, his weight holding Steve’s body pinned, their faces very close.

Steve’s whole body went stiff and he stared up at the man with wide blue eyes. 

Mr. Stark studied Steve’s face a moment, then caressed his cheek. He eased his weight off of Steve’s body.

“I frighten you, don’t I, darling?” Mr. Stark asked gently (perhaps a little sad).

Steve swallowed roughly and shook his head.

(I frighten myself.) 

For one giddy moment, Steve thought Stark was starting to lean down, was going to bring their lips together in a kiss; but then he just gave a little smile, pulled back, and began to move down Steve’s body, turning Steve to a shuddering wreck once more as he licked and kissed Steve’s chest and nipples, then kept moving down.

“Isn’t this lovely,” Stark murmured, looking at Steve’s leaking prick. “All red and wanting. I could take care of you, darling. I’d be glad to.” 

He kissed Steve’s jutting hip bone and his warm breath ghosted across Steve’s dick; he gasped and arched up off the rug.

Stark looked up with wide brown eyes and a warm expression.

“So, sweetheart, what’ll it be?” Stark licked his lips. “Yes or no?”

Steve shivered and shut his eyes.

( _ Please, please, please _ .)

Stark’s thumb caressed his thigh in a little circle, but other than that he was still.

(Oh God. Do it; move, please. . . )

Steve jerked his hips up.

“You have to answer, dear,” Stark said in that gentle little voice that left Steve torn between gratitude for the comfort and indignation at being patronized. 

“Yes or no?” Stark asked again.

(I can’t.)

Steve couldn’t speak, couldn’t move--could hardly seem to breathe.

(Saying it makes it real . . . more real than letting you, more than doing it.)

The little circles on Steve’s thigh went still. 

“Shhhhh,” Stark murmured, though it made no sense to shush him. Steve wasn’t saying anything. “Shhhh, darling. It’s alright. You don’t know what you want, do you?”

Steve’s eyes flew open in alarm as he felt Stark moving away, but he was just repositioning himself to stretch out beside Steve on the rug again. He pressed a little kiss to Steve’s shoulder and wrapped his arm around Steve’s waist. 

“You’ve done so well,” Stark whispered, just holding Steve. But the kind words made Steve’s stomach twist: it couldn’t be true, could it? “You’ve been so good for me, sweetheart.”

“I’m going to untie you now, gorgeous,” Stark announced and Steve felt a rush of disappointment. 

And shame.

(Already? Was he doing so badly?)

It was absurd. 

(Stark’s paying you. He sets the terms. If he’s done, you should just be grateful.)

Steve watched Stark carefully untie his ankles, but he felt neither relief nor the fascination he’d felt watching as the man put the knots into place. As he repeated the process at Steve’s wrists, Steve shivered.

Stark pulled the thick blue blanket up around Steve, then wrapped him in his arms again (hips at a distance). The blanket should have left Steve overheated, with the roaring fire so close, but he’d begun to feel strangely chilled. The blanket was soft and nice. Stark was still, but solid beside him. 

Steve wondered vaguely if he was supposed to be doing something, but told himself Mr Stark would surely tell him what to do eventually. For now, he seemed happy to just hold Steve quietly in his arms.

Steve sighed. It was nice . . . being held. 

The moment lingered. 

“When you’re ready, Mr. Rogers,” Mr. Stark said, pulling away, “once you’re feeling a little more together, you have my permission to get up and get dressed.” Stark stood up and Steve could hear him arranging his clothes. “Then please join me at my desk. Take your time; I’m in no hurry.”

(It was over?) 

Steve frowned. (Was that all?). Everything felt like a confused jumble, nothing what it should be. Steve curled up tight under the blanket.

Stark hadn’t hurt him--not really--and he hadn’t done anything sexual to him either--not really. He should be relieved, but in the churning tangle of Steve’s feelings “relief” wasn’t as near the top as it should be. 

Steve shivered and bit his lip, frowning into the fire and trying to push away the shameful sensation that he’d failed. 

It was a job. He wanted to do well at it, because that was how he’d keep making money.

He didn’t think he’d done very well just now. 

And he did want to do well. (Wanted to please Stark--perhaps too much.)

Steve wouldn’t have a single bruise to show for their session and Stark had left him there naked on the rug, walking away with his stiffie unsatisfied.

Had he simply changed his mind about Steve? Why? What had he done wrong?

(Froze up twice, like a goddamn coward.)

He still could have taken it. Stark was the one to call off, not Steve!

Did Stark think he was too fragile? Too small and breakable? Well, it wasn’t anything he hadn’t already seen in the bloody drawing. So what had he expected?

Steve threw the blanket aside and began yanking his clothes on. He felt tense and itchy; his dick hung limp and disappointed between his legs. 

When Steve finally turned around, Mr. Stark was fully dressed again, vest, tie and jacket all done up. He was drinking a double scotch and leaning against his desk. As Steve approached, he held the bottle up inquiringly.

“A drink, Mr. Rogers?” Stark asked. 

(I’m not  _ dear, sweetheart,  _ and  _ darling  _ anymore, I guess.)

Steve nodded and watched him pour then took the offered glass; Stark had laid out the soda water for him, but Steve decided to take it neat. He raised his glass then took a cautious sip.

“You look troubled, Mr. Rogers,” Mr. Stark said.

“I can take more than that,” Steve said, in answer to the man’s not-quite-question. “I’m tougher than I look.”

“Of course you are, Mr. Rogers,” Stark said, rubbing his chest. “I know a survivor when I see one.”

“Then why didn’t you do anything?”

Stark raised his eyebrows and said mildly, “I’d hardly call what I just did with you  _ nothing _ .”

“You know what I mean,” Steve answered with a glare.

“You mean why didn’t I hurt you more?”

“Yes.”

“Because it’s too soon.”

“Too soon?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” Steve demanded.

Mr. Stark gave him a strange little smile, took a sip of scotch, then replied: “You wouldn’t enjoy it.”

Steve squinted at him.

“And that matters?”

“Very much, Mr. Rogers,” Stark answered in a low tone. “This is all about pleasure.”

Steve felt a little rush of heat at Stark’s tone and stared down into his glass. 

“I don’t think I understand you, Mr. Stark,” Steve admitted.

Stark grinned. 

“Nor I you, Mr. Rogers,” he said. “That’s to be expected. We’ve only just met.” Mr. Stark hesitated then added, a hint of tension in his voice, “But I very much hope you’ll continue on this journey with me.”

Steve stared at the gorgeous man before him--sculpted features, bright eyes, boxer’s build--in his sharp three piece suit, in his opulent library, in his giant 5th Avenue mansion: awaiting Steve’s judgement.

Steve raised his glass. 

“To the journey then,” Steve said.

The subtle signs of Mr. Stark’s relief--the little rush of breath, the loosened shoulders--were oddly sweet. 

Mr. Stark raised his glass to Steve’s with a smile.

“To the journey.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really should have seen this coming, but I didn't. 
> 
> "Write some slightly dark, filthy smut," I thought. "Super explicit! Extra filthy! Not a lot of feelings and no plot or world building, ok?"
> 
> LOL. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this weirdo thing anyway, And, for what it's worth, I think it'll be a series. (Like, one with actual sex! And a plot!). So, if you'd like to feed the muse, please drop me a kind word.
> 
> Thanks for reading. <3


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> EPILOGUE / SERIES TEASER! : Tony and Natasha have a little chat after Steve and Tony’s first scene in A Model Patron.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little teaser for the series here as epilogue.

“You knew, didn’t you?” Tony asked as soon as Natasha entered the study.

“Probably,” she answered with a smile, slipping out of her heels. “What did I know this time?”

“Mr. Steven Rogers,” Tony said, raising his glass and offering a little salute. She padded barefoot to the bar.

“And what did I know about him?” Natasha asked, pouring herself a vodka and then draping herself across the wing-back chair opposite Tony.

“That he’d be perfect.” Tony said it with a hint of wonder, looking into the fire. “He was so beautiful, Nat. You’ve no idea. Sharp and soft all at once. Perfect.”

After a few moments of rapt contemplation, Tony turned to her with something bordering on irritation, “I sometimes wonder if you’re a mind reader. You should be The Scarlet Witch, like on the radio, instead of the Black Widow.”

Natasha rolled her eyes. “Hardly. I’m simply a keen observer.”

“Like Sherlock Holmes.”

She rolled her eyes again.

“Wait,” Tony said abruptly, “Back up. Do you mean to say that you were watching him. Did you write a profile on him? Because that’s–”

“Hardly,” Natasha said with an annoyed huff. “Alexeyev was in Brooklyn. Rogers was merely an entertaining side project while I was in the area; I could hardly avoid noticing him.”

“And what did you learn?”

“He’s proud, stubborn, and bad at picking his battles. Smart, but lacking common sense, so an ideal match for you,” Natasha said, raising her glass. “He has a chip on his shoulder–poor, sickly, queer, how could he not?–but he’s brave and generous to the point of folly.”

“I meant Alexeyev.”

“Sure you did.”

“Well?”

Natasha threw back the rest of her vodka and smiled. “Taken care of.”

Tony nodded. “He should have run farther than Brooklyn if he wanted to escape the Black Widow.”

Natasha shrugged. 

“What now?” she asked. 

“I was thinking Marcov. Or Manelli,” Tony answered. “Take your pick.”

“I meant Rogers.”

“Ah.” Tony took a sip of scotch and turned away to gaze into the fire.

“You’ll see him again, won’t you?” Natasha asked with carefully feigned nonchalance.

“Of course,” Tony said, then added, “If he comes.”

“Did you already arrange another meeting?”

“Yes, weekly. Thursdays.”

“Then he’ll come.” Natasha smiled. “He’d never back down.”

“Perhaps,” Tony said, tone grim.

Natasha wanted to smack him.

“You didn’t think he’d come after your lunch date either,” she pointed out.

“True,” he answered, turning to her with a smile, but it dimmed quickly. “I wonder how many Thursdays until he decides he’s had enough–built up his nest egg and can move on.” 

Natasha sighed. There was no point trying to explain to Tony that growing up in that kind of poverty meant you’d never feel secure, no matter the nest egg. 

And there was no point explaining that it wasn’t money that had brought Rogers to him either. 

So Natasha was silent. She hated wasting her breath on futile reassurance.

Tony shrugged and added in a lighter tone, one that didn’t fool Natasha and probably didn’t fool himself either: “But that’s fine. I’m hardly in the position to be getting into anything long term anyway.”

Natasha’s heart twisted, but she glared just the same.

“Self-pity’s a bad look on you, Stark.”

Tony turned to her with a watery smile. 

“Of course,” he said, finishing his scotch. “Forgive me, my dear.”

Tony took their empty glasses to the bar and poured them each a refill. 

“So,” Tony asked, raising his glass in a wordless toast. “What next? Marcov or Manelli?”

Natasha smiled.

“Both.”

“You have a plan?”

“Of course.”

“Then I’m all ears.” Tony smiled, then asked: “Is it a plan that pairs with caviar and pierogies or arancini and calamari.” 

“Both.”

“Excellent! I’ll just let Jarvis know.”

Natasha grinned. She really loved working with Tony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep. It's a series now! Thanks to your incredible kindness and your support for my writing. <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you like this and would enjoy more, I'd love to hear from you. Thoughts, questions, reactions, excitements, favorite bits all feed the muse. MANY THANKS!
> 
> And, yes, I'm still working on Power & Paradox, but am hoping to use this story to lure The Muse back to me. Fingers crossed I'll keep this one manageable! :)


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